


Do Not Go Gentle

by Ooze



Category: DmC: Devil May Cry
Genre: F/M, Friend's OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-14 04:48:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7154240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ooze/pseuds/Ooze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With his mate’s passing, his only light went right alongside her. His <i>luce bianca</i>, burnt out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Not Go Gentle

> _Do not go gentle into that good night.  
>  Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

It was sheer irony that threw her into his arms, having him plead with her, with life—begging for one not to leave the other. He suffered, when it all should have gone the other way around. His pain should have been physical, and it was _her_ cries he should have heard, _her_ pleas for him to hang on to the light. It should have been _Vergil_ who lay there, having fulfilled his obligation like he’d always envisioned. He was ready to accept death for her, not _from_ her. And he was faced with that very horrific scenario now, scarcely prepared for it. 

Agitated, in a panic, he struggled to balance his emotions, a sudden storm of them surging throughout his being. There was too much happening at once, and through his own personal turmoil, his barking and Bianca’s gasping, he could hear the cries and murmurs of those responsible. When once they were livid and bloodthirsty, _now_ they stood almost motionless, yards away from _their_ nobles. And it was not out of guilt that they halted, but fear. They knew all too well of the fire and the fury boiling inside their lord; it radiated forth from him, and it reeked of _their_ doom. Perhaps it was now too late for those brutes to fear for their lives. They should not have sought to revolt, and they knew it as a certainty when their lord shot them icy daggers, a snarl to his lips as he’d very well sealed their fate with only a seconds’ look. 

Demons, _fucking demons_ —and Bianca had been their target, to subdue her while Vergil had been preoccupied with others. _Damn_. It was his fault. It was their fault. But he silently chastised her, too, for having flung herself into the middle. _Damn_. If only she’d stood back, only let him deal with it himself. Why did she have to be god damned foolish? Why did she want to take on the role of warrior, of defender? Those were Vergil’s positions to fill, and because of one thing or another she wound up a bleeding, suffocating, dying mess. Worst of all, he could not help her. That had to be what stung the most. Even now, as she fought against death’s hand, still _there_ , he could do nothing for her. _Nothing_. _Damn it all_.

“You’ll heal, you’ll be okay.”

She would not.

“Be strong—stay with me!”

She _could_ not.

And he knew that his words were meaningless, useless; they did nothing to assuage. All that crimson staining her face was undeserved, and try as he might to wipe it away, he only helped to smear it across her mouth, catching it on his now slick glove. She was terrified, and had every reason to be. Vergil felt the same within him, watching her panic and gasp and choke with her eyes wide as ever, staring at him with longing— _begging_ him to release her of her torment, to save her from her fate.

Vergil was too fully aware of what was to come. Every fiber of his being dreaded it, hated this: everything. He’d known fear, but not at such an extreme. He’d never been so helpless and it wracked his mind and his heart. All the dread and the pain and the anguish—not even his descent into Hell could compare. In that moment, he was so sure that holding his beloved’s expiring body was the very worst thing he’d have to experience. And though he tried to hold her gently, as if to spare her any more discomfort, a darker side of him knew that his touch wouldn’t make a bit of difference.

Hope dwindled, and it all happened so quickly regardless of the fact that it felt like an eternity. Still, the demons remained; still she persisted, and endlessly did he ask her to _not let go_. Her hand nearest him reached for his buttons, grasping one weakly though in a fury and _oh dearest god_ did that further solidify that which he battled to ignore. How very weak he’d become in the span of a few minutes, no more resembling a demon lord than a whimpering puppy. He melted right there, with Bianca, mind crumbling along with every other of his tightened threads suddenly unraveling. He thought he was so strong, so _cold_ and emotionless. The very contrary was proven right in front of those he ruled.

Yet, his exterior had not reflected all that occurred within. It was almost mechanically the way in which he languished, appearing panic stricken but not quite all the rest. “No, Bianca,” he’d urge, “don’t leave me.” She never took her eyes off his, a mixture of emotions clouding both pairs. He could discern the chaos—her fear. She didn’t want to die, didn’t want to leave him and he _knew_ that as a painful fact. But her breath hitched, rasping, her fingers curling tighter around the single button she held. _No, no, not that._

He neared his breaking point; but when the realization that her body went limp, that her spirit stilled came upon him, he could scarcely react. His eyes observed her, noting the way she’d attempted to close her eyes before slipping away, but hadn’t quite made it. A shame; a heartbreaking pity. It was then that he knew he could no longer look into those pools again… He did her the good grace of shutting her lids, sealing her gaze once and for all. And in what way to remember her: a look of despair, lost, reflecting a spirit that fought but could not win. Her eyes were soulless, empty, and he hated that he would have to remember her final moments, that look plastered clear on her face. Neither of them deserved that.

A gentle grasp took hold of her arm, still clinging stubbornly to his person as she so refused to let go of him. But she _had_ , and nothing could erase that simple fact. The lord mindfully laid her arm beside her by her wrist, staining it with her own life fluid, his glove still soiled with the stuff he’d try to clear away earlier. Only moments ago. Persistently, he cradled her form, moving a hand gingerly across her face as he brushed her bangs aside. He’d managed to grease her brow with a light touch of blood: something that he frowned at. With great care, Vergil set her flat upon the concrete, allowing her body to rest at last. He’d only been keeping her inclined, as if to save her somehow.

It was then that he stood, hovering for a moment over his dead queen to contemplate her. Oh, he would never forget _this_ : it was doubtless the image before him would ever fade from his memory. But he would not fall victim to grief: too much of that had come to pass already. In that instant he numbed himself, iced over; the shock of it left him nonplussed, but his defenses immediately sprang once stimulated. Though he’d felt an unusual wetness to his eyes, he chose to ignore it. 

Once again he’d been left behind, _forsaken_ , even when he asked for the very contrary. It seemed for a little while that perhaps he could save what little compassion he had left over. He’d turned in his heart, and all affections and sympathy with it, to the woman who died in his arms. He thought that she could save that small part of him, to perhaps even repair it; he’d wanted her to hang onto that sweetness that was his own in the event that his corruption would consume him whole. She would have at least had a small reminder of what he was, or _could have been_ , before his darkness whisked him away from her. That, he knew, depended only on time. But he never counted on such a sour turn of events. Now that Bianca had gone—left him like the rest—she’d taken those small, delicate parts with her. And it was then, in that moment of realization, that a voice only too familiar surfaced at the back of his consciousness, goading him into welcoming it _back_.

With his mate’s passing, his only light went right alongside her. His _luce bianca_ , burnt out. No matter how much they raged against it, she went—but she did not go gently, not having given up at any point, at least.

Not a drop of warmth remained, save for the fire roaring in his blood. A loss, maybe, but it was better this way. The Hollow was right in purging him of his feelings, and he finally understood why it had been done. He was a fool for doubting, for being insecure; but before his eyes he could see the truth of it all, laid neatly in a limp, bloodied heap. He’d suffered so much, and he knew now that being _empty_ only spared him of that which he’d already been dragged through before. Repetition would not come to pass; Vergil was prepared this time, knowing _now_ rather than assuming. Though it was true, he cared for his mate, and still his heart weighed heavy in his chest despite darker words tempting him to forget. Vergil would have cast his own life aside to spare hers, and no sacrifice could have been greater—there was not a single doubt in his mind that he grew weak for her, but hindsight persuaded him into believing that it was simply wrong of him to do. He’d taken a foolish series of steps, and now he was hurting for it.

That voice resonating through the hollow in his heart convinced him that it was deserved. For committing such folly, he earned a penalty. But he’d become wiser, and he knew with certainty that no living thing would ever see so much as a hint of amiability. There was nothing in it for the outcast, and he was quite through with these repeated results. 

As a king among demons, Vergil had no room for grief or love. No use for it. And he’d been badgered for being too soft in the past, those same demons he ruled beginning to doubt his worth. But, oh, how they cowered in fear now, whimpering and huddling together as if awaiting their execution. They were wrong to think him weak, to suggest that he’d become too _human_. Look at him now, a raging, though tempered mixture of fury and hatred. Bloodlust seduced him, vengeance clear on his mind. Staring at his queen’s silent and still form solidified that truth: he would not spare a single demon alive in proximity.

His gaze shifted, landing upon the horde that watched him with bated breath. Only feet away from his mate did his Yamato rest, neglected when it had been dropped by its wielder. He curled his bloodied grasp around its hilt, the other reaching for the scabbard which lay right beside it. The blade used to safeguard the only other hybrid he prized would now shed blood in her name. She earned this sacrifice. It would be the last thing he’d do for her.

Though his feelings hardened, the thought of his fallen mate stubbornly persisted. His sentiments were mixed, undecided between anger and loss, loneliness and hatred; _regret, ire, disappointment_. A lord and a king and a noble he might have been, but he was no more experienced, not at all mature enough. Vergil was still such a child, so confused, but hating the world—both worlds—with as much passion as ever. The fact that he faced loneliness and abandonment, whether it be accidental or not, was perhaps more disconcerting to him than he’d ever imagined. His parents, his brother: all family died and been thought of as dead. All friends, all acquaintances and allies: he’d lost touch, or simply never cared enough to find them. Kat, too, was among the living dead. Vergil lost every one of them. But Bianca, too? And after all the effort he put, all the time and energy invested: _she_ was the only living thing who’d meant so much to him, and even she had to be taken away.

Why? What repelled others from him? Was it because he was _nephilim_? A being whose very nature contradicted itself? Surely, there had to be a better reason… There had to be _some_ reason. Life could not scorn him so rampantly. What had he done, after all? He’d been betrayed and sent to Hell by his own flesh and blood, and yet he still had to suffer for it while his damned brother got away with murder. He could only imagine how Eva smiled up at her favorite son. And what of Sparda? Didn’t _he_ have any say in what was happening to Vergil?

Was he really so alone, so left to his own devices that he could not even _demand_ anyone to mend this mess? If he cried, who would listen? No support, no care nor sympathy. In the recesses of his mind, he bid a proper farewell to his mate with one last, enduring glance. By now he’d accepted her absence. Perhaps they were better off this way, without one another. It… made more sense. He cursed at himself for remaining fond. Nevertheless, he said goodbye to his better half, and in doing so parted with the man he used to be. It was best that she move on with that other form of Vergil. Following this, that side of him would be a thing of the past.

With his blade primed and his body embracing all the power and corruption that lay dormant within, his eyes took on an almost soulless glow—that which reflected the malice, the embitterment, the hunger for redemption that had been allowed to resurface once more. And it was with a strange rush that he _felt_ so much flowing throughout his body and mind. At the sight of him, so altered, his would-be rebels made no attempt to flee. It was more than certain that the nephilim would cut them all down, each one of them responsible for what unraveled. Just as he’d once said before, he would rule _alone_.

Thenceforth, the sounds of agony and death filled the quietude. With every strike and slash and splatter of crimson, the memory of his dearest departed empowered the ends they’d met. While Vergil remained lucid, his mind and soul still throbbing over his loss, he would slaughter to redeem her honor, for the injustice imparted upon her and himself. Although soon his corruption would claim his judgment, he could at the very least mourn in this way, until it all fades to black.


End file.
